The Sound of Silence
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: [COMPLETE] My take on the two years following the Fall, but from Mrs Hudson's viewpoint, as she holds the fort that is 221 Baker Street and makes sure that she never loses faith in her friend Sherlock Holmes, gone but not forgotten. Spoilers for series 2 and 3.
1. 221 Baker Street

221 Baker Street was a lonely place without Sherlock and John.

She didn't want to admit it, she didn't want to think on it, but she found it strange to have slept properly for an entire week, not awoken by gunshots or violin-playing or some other more unidentifiable noise. It was odd to be able to make tea without hearing the scratchy noise of a bow not quite gliding across the strings, eking out something that she had no word for, a wavering, horrid tuneless thing that came and went with Sherlock's thoughts...

She had never liked that sound. She had wished he would play properly. But now she would give all she had to hear anything but the terrible sound of silence.

She remembered hearing about it. That fateful day when her phone had rung – why had she chosen her favourite song for the ringtone? She would never be able to listen to it again – and told her the news, the awful news that even her nightmares had never managed to match.

He was gone.

It was strange, because so many times she had believed him dead, or thought he would get himself killed, in that dangerous job of his, those madcap escapades he went on. He got kicks from peril and he never recoiled from the face of death itself. Yet until now he had managed to avoid it. She had thought him lucky, immensely lucky.

Well, the luck had to run out one day.

She had known a lot of people pass away. She wouldn't have called herself old, but she was, and nowadays it wasn't quite that people were dying before her, it was more that she was outliving them.

Sherlock had been young though.

Too young.

Who, not knowing him, could have looked into those naïve eyes, that almost-angelic face and said that it hid anything more than a child?

Far too young.

Over and over she told herself that she knew it would happen eventually. It was a horrid thought to have, but not an unfounded one. More than once she had awoken shuddering after seeing him killed at the hands of some dastardly masked villain. A gun, a bullet, a gasp –

She had never imagined that he would kill himself.

She had never understood him, and now she never would.

Mrs Hudson was a rational woman, but it was hard to listen to reason in those dark times. She mourned, of course, and accepted that he was gone; but she knew that she could not go like John. Dear John Watson – Sherlock's best friend, undoubtedly, now nothing but a shell.

John returned to Baker Street only to move out. He was quiet, subdued, his grief bordering on madness, reserving a few words only for his most intimate friends, none for anyone else. He wasn't coming back, he couldn't bear to; he took his things and went – somewhere; he didn't say where.

And she missed him. His goodbye had been a handshake, his parting words some murmur that she hadn't managed to catch. She missed him being smiling and friendly, she missed drinking tea with him, she missed that satisfying normality that was so different from Sherlock's eccentricity. It broke her heart to see that smile downturned, that voice of reason turned to a whisper that betrayed his brokenness. She missed Sherlock. But, if anything, she missed John Watson more.

They had stood by the grave, that minimalistic monument that somehow spoke volumes, and reminisced; and she had left him to speak to Sherlock, the only person he wanted to speak to. The old John Watson, so bubbly, so friendly, had faded with Sherlock.

But of course Sherlock did not fade. His name survived, became more prominent, more infamous. Apparently he had claimed to be a fake. Ha! Well, that was ridiculous. Sherlock had been a genius, he couldn't have faked that. The tabloids and even the broadsheets had picked up the story scarily quickly, trying to claim that they had "always known" – but how could they have always known something that just wasn't true?

John and Mrs Hudson had been close to Sherlock – the closest, perhaps – and they were adamant that the story was untrue, despite the evidence to the contrary. They knew Sherlock – they _knew_ he was a genius! Wasn't he? How was it thinkable, nay possible, that –

* * *

Mrs Hudson was left the job of what to do with 221B. John had taken his things but not dared to move any of Sherlock's. Mrs Hudson, being Mrs Hudson, tidied and scrubbed the kitchen thoroughly, but could not bear to touch anything in the living-room. It became a time-capsule, a memorial more poignant, perhaps, than anything a stone-worker could have managed.

The chairs. Sherlock's chair. The coffee-table, still with a mug on it (empty, of course – she would have washed one that still had anything in it). His laptop. Paper, books, folders. Ornaments and photographs that had presumably meant something to him. The mirror above the mantelpiece – she looked into it, and almost hoped that she would see a sprawl of dark hair behind her, hear that voice that she loved and hated all at once.

She didn't even wipe away the small smear of something on the corner of the mirror, much as it irritated her. She didn't brush the dust from the books on the bookshelf. She didn't put the Encyclopaedia Britannica back into alphabetical order. She didn't touch anything, she just – stood.

Remembered.

Then she turned away, closed the door quietly, locked it. Leaned against it for a moment. With her ear to the wood as if listening... She shook her head, smiling sadly, and padded back down the stairs to her own flat. There was still something of Sherlock left in the house – he would never be gone, not whilst his memory lived on in that flat, in John, in her.

She would miss him. She missed him. She couldn't imagine what would keep her going now that her life was, well, back to normal. But she wouldn't let his memory fade. She wouldn't forget him, what he had done for her, for John. And most of all, she wouldn't lose faith.


	2. Mycroft Holmes

Mrs Hudson had never sold 221C. Indeed, she had never really bothered to do it up. It had been left for so long that to get rid of the mould and the damp and the other unidentified growths would cost her time and money she didn't have, and anyway, it would be weird having someone else in the house. Her, Sherlock and John – it had always been a perfect threesome. Well, not so perfect. But, against all odds, it had worked.

She stepped into the living-room of the second-floor flat and looked around. Though the layout was much the same as the flats downstairs, it seemed empty, cold, lifeless. Should she sell it? She couldn't sell 221B. Not yet. So if she wanted the money she would need to rent out 221C.

She sniffed a little and wondered if there was anyone remotely liked Sherlock who might want a flat in London. It was hardly likely. She was lonely with nobody else in the house, but nobody could ever quite fill that gap. Not like Sherlock and John.

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Her one true pairing. Was that what people called them? Yes. Her one true pairing.

She was so lost in her memories that she sat down without it even occurring to her that there were no seats in 221C. When at last she returned to herself she found that her legs had gone numb and that the floor was colder than she had thought.

She wouldn't sell 221C. She had enough money for now. She didn't need to sell 221B either. She would just... keep it as it was. A sort-of memorial. Her own gesture of... of thanks, and remembrance, and friendship. Had they been friends? She didn't really know. Sherlock and friends was a prickly and confusing topic. But he had liked her. She had liked him.

Mrs Hudson sighed, and wondered if she would ever move on. She couldn't keep the house like this forever. Housing shortages and all that. The government would be on her tail before she knew it. But right now, she just... couldn't.

* * *

Sometimes she thought of the other people Sherlock had been close to. Greg Lestrade – the Scotland Yard man. He was nice. He had got on with Sherlock, unusually for someone in the police force. Where was he now? She saw his name once in the newspapers – he had said something about trusting Sherlock entirely, even now. But of course. Scotland Yard had got a lot of stick for taking on Sherlock without investigating him first, and Lestrade, who had been the one hiring him most of the time, had got off very badly. She felt sorry for him.

That nice girl from the morgue – Molly. She had been round sometimes, and she had got on well with Mrs Hudson, being friendly and down-to-earth. She had liked Sherlock. Possibly more than she let on sometimes. And Sherlock had respected her. She knew that much. Poor girl, what would she say when she found out?

Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. They didn't really share a brotherly relationship, but deep down there was a love and respect that neither would admit to. Mycroft was, if anything, more aloof than Sherlock, less emotional, but surely if he found out that his brother had taken his own life –

Sherlock's parents. The dears. Quite unlike their offspring, very nice, very friendly. She had met them a couple of times; they had got on quite well. And now their son had... Good God, no wonder they hadn't come up for the funeral. They probably couldn't bear to...

And then... her and John. Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson. The Baker Street gang. Baker Street gang? Was that too cheesy?

The time of the Baker Street gang was over. It had always been inevitable, she supposed. But so soon?...

Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock Sherlock SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock.

Dear Sherlock...

* * *

A letter arrived for Sherlock a few days later. Mrs Hudson smiled sadly as it dropped onto the mat, picking it up and studying it – and then she realised that she recognised the handwriting.

It was John's.

A tear came to her eye all of a sudden as she realised what it must be. John still needed to speak to him, still wanted him to hear his words, and had sent him this, presumably an outpouring of those things he had never managed to say when his friend was alive. Did it comfort him? Perhaps. She turned the envelope over in her hands, and then went upstairs, going into 221B and placing it on the coffee-table as if Sherlock was going to come later and pick it up.

'Terribly sentimental, isn't he?' said a voice from behind her.

She turned, and was astonished to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, one hand in his trouser pocket. He walked in slowly, his eyes flashing around the room before coming to rest on Mrs Hudson.

'Poor John...'

Mrs Hudson had never heard anything quite so touching come from Mycroft before, and patted him on the shoulder (much to his discomfort, though he didn't say anything). 'Yes. The poor _lamb_... Everything that's happened... he shouldn't have to have been through this.'

Mycroft crossed the room and went to the desk. He didn't look as if he had just lost a brother, Mrs Hudson noticed, though to be honest the world could end and he would still wear that blank face with the unconscious smirk. As he began to rifle through the papers there Mrs Hudson said, 'What are you doing?'

'Looking for something... my brother left...' Mycroft drew out a couple of sheets of paper and inspected them. 'Ah. Yes.' Then he turned to the drawer and pulled it out, extracting a folder that Mrs Hudson was sure contained Sherlock's passport and other documents. 'Yes. Sorry to bother you. Goodbye.'

And with that he strode to the door and left. Mrs Hudson watched him in bewilderment. Mycroft Holmes was up to something... But it wasn't her business, and she wouldn't interfere. His face disturbed her a little – it was too blank, too unchanged – but she guessed that he must just be bottling up his grief. Sherlock had had a tendency to hide his emotions like that...

She sighed once again at the recollection of Sherlock's little habits, and smoothed down the pile of papers before leaving the room herself, with only a quick glance back to the letter on the coffee-table.


	3. Waiting

Time had never passed so slowly.

She didn't really move on. Not properly. No, she sat, and – waited. Yes. You could call it waiting. She didn't know quite what she was waiting for. Change? John's return? Another Sherlock to turn up on her doorstep?

None of those were remotely likely. So she just sat. And waited. And didn't really do much else. She couldn't. Not now. There was nothing _to_ do.

She had friends in the city. She had a couple of acquaintances a bit further out. Not that they ever really came to visit. Not that she ever really visited them. Sherlock and John had been – well, her life.

Sherlock, damn him, refused to stay dead, or at least there were a lot of people more than willing to keep him alive. His name flared up in the papers more often than she would have liked; she had to cancel her subscriptions to one of the tabloids, the amount of abuse they were giving him. A certain Kitty Riley was at the fore of the reports. Mrs Hudson wondered who she was, and when it was she had got on his wrong side. Say what you like about Sherlock, it was pretty hard to get that far onto his wrong side.

Then there was the ex-Scotland Yard man – Phil Anderson, she thought his name was. A scruffy man, not the brightest of people, but the creator of a mad conspiracy theory – that Sherlock was still alive. According to him, there was definitive proof that Sherlock had cheated death and was hiding somewhere on the Continent. Mrs Hudson had spoken to him once – he had wanted to ask her about certain details, he had even wanted to investigate 221B. She hadn't let him, of course. And he had upset her. He hadn't been at the funeral; he hadn't seen John's face – John, who had watched his friend fall – from the top of a building, for God's sake! How on this Earth could he have survived? She had posed this question; Anderson had immediately spouted a whole list of increasingly insane theories. She had had to slam the door on him; she found him later trying to scale the drainpipe to get into Sherlock's flat. At that point she had threatened to call the police; Anderson had been halfway through saying that he _was_ the police when he remembered that he had been sacked. She wasn't really surprised.

It was only natural, she supposed, that this sort of high-profile case should spawn conspiracy nuts like Anderson. There were probably hundreds like him out there. She found herself cursing him not for mentioning Sherlock – whose very name no longer drew tears, like it had in the first couple of weeks, but still depressed her – but for raising her hopes just for a fraction of a second. It would be just like him to cheat death. It was practically his job. But the facts were contrary to Anderson's ideas – weren't they?

She waited.

The kettle was always within her line of sight. She found herself considering how happy she would be to make tea for more than just herself again. She perhaps listened for a knock on the door, or a voice at the keyhole.

But after a few months, she just had to give up. Sherlock wasn't coming back.

* * *

Mycroft surprised her by being the person who visited her most frequently. Well, not her. He visited 221B, and she didn't stop him, nor did she ask what he was up to, because she trusted him to know what he was doing. Anyway, his job was top-secret. He visited twice in four months, which was quite impressive.

Not that she liked Mycroft. He was dull, sarcastic, almost misanthropic. In essence, Sherlock without a likeable side. But on the second visit she insisted on making him tea, out of politeness more than anything else, and he appeared surprisingly grateful.

'I can see why Sherlock appreciated having you as a housekeeper,' Mycroft said vaguely, sipping from his cup. He took his tea black, the same as Sherlock, and looked rather remarkably like him, sitting there half in a world of his own. Mrs Hudson wondered if he had a mind palace too.

'I wasn't his housekeeper,' Mrs Hudson said indignantly, sniffing a little. She tried to look disparaging, but succeeded only in looking a bit teary. She hadn't wanted to call herself his housekeeper. But she had always played that role. And though she had hated it, she found now that she missed it almost more than anything else. She had been proud of keeping 221B relatively tidy despite everything. And the kettle had always sounded much nicer in his airy kitchen than in her small one.

Mycroft smiled slightly. Evidently Sherlock had let him in on that private joke.

'You haven't heard from John, have you?' she asked at length.

Mycroft shook his head. 'The last I knew, he had gone to his parents' house. I imagine he is still there. I am not too concerned with his actions,' he added, 'though I could track him if you wanted me to.'

Mrs Hudson shook her head vigorously. 'No. No. Absolutely not. The poor man needs to be left alone.' At the same time, she was annoyed at Mycroft knowing more about John's whereabouts than her. Perhaps he had just guessed.

'Yes...'

'It's a difficult thing to lose a friend,' said Mrs Hudson with feeling.

'Quite. Quite,' said Mycroft absent-mindedly. He couldn't say he had ever lost a friend. He couldn't say he had ever had a friend. 'Thank you for the tea,' he said at length, handing her back the cup. 'Goodbye.'

And he swung his coat over his shoulders and strode away.

Mrs Hudson found herself wondering, rather horribly, if anyone would have noticed if the other Holmes brother had died instead.


	4. New Beginnings

**I should probably say that I do not claim any responsibility for the second exchange between Mrs Hudson and John in this chapter, of which the dialogue is lifted straight from the episode. The final line is taken from the similar incident in _The Empty House_ by Conan Doyle.**

* * *

Two years.

Two long years.

Hardly a day went by when she didn't think of her former tenants. John was never in touch. Sherlock's name began to slip from public consciousness. But she couldn't stop them from being a part of her life, her thoughts.

It was quiet.

Had she really lived in such silence before Sherlock had clattered into her life? She had been almost a year in 221A when he had accepted her offer of the flat upstairs. What could it have been like? Tea and television, uninterrupted? How perfectly dull!

She soon began to realise, however, that she couldn't live without Sherlock and John for more reasons than one. She remembered why she had rented out 221B. She began to wonder if she needed the money, and eventually concluded that actually, she might do.

So she began to do up 221C. Wallpapering, getting someone in to sort out the fireplace and the plumbing, getting rid of the damp that had begun to creep across the kitchen ceiling. And a few people came to look at the flat, too – a businessman, a young couple, even a rather rich university student. None of them seemed to find it particularly appealing. It was too far away from work, too expensive, still a bit damp. Well, she had tried. Perhaps she hadn't tried hard enough. Perhaps she hadn't tried hard enough on purpose, just to make sure nobody would ever try to step into Sherlock's place...

They drifted in and out sometimes, the potential buyers, always retreating with an apology. They were just about her only visitors. Mycroft had still visited occasionally, though last time he had had his nose buried in a notebook filled with neat columns of words – was he learning a language? – and hadn't spoken to Mrs Hudson at all, except when he had bade her goodbye, which he had said in something quite unlike English.

He was _definitely_ up to something.

* * *

A knock at the door had surprised her; the only people who visited these days wanted to look at 221C, and they usually informed her first. She was even more surprised when she opened the door to find John Watson behind it.

She was angry with him. Of course she was angry with him. He had left her here for two years. 'Two years, John!' But she had quickly mellowed. He wasn't the old John Watson. He had changed. She would have liked him to visit, even just to phone – but, as he said, it became much harder as time went on to connect back to his old life. As far as he was concerned, his old life was gone now.

He looked older. More than two years older. He had sprouted a moustache, and it didn't suit him. Made him look about fifty. She couldn't remember the last time moustaches like that had been in fashion. She didn't know if they ever had been. And he had been frowning too much. His forehead was criss-crossed with lines that betrayed his grief, his worry, his sadness.

But he tried to smile, he was pleased to see Mrs Hudson again, he was trying to throw off all thoughts of two years ago. He had lived here once... He wasn't the same man.

John fingered the handle of his cup of tea nervously. 'So... I supposed you've sold...'

'No,' she said at once.

'No?...'

'I couldn't.'

Their eyes met. At once a mutual understanding flashed between them. John's heart pounded a little faster, perhaps as memories washed over him, perhaps out of nostalgia. He wouldn't have been able to sell it either. Perhaps he was... just a little pleased.

'Can I...'

'See it?' Mrs Hudson spoke quietly, smiling sympathetically. 'Of course you can.'

They both drained their cups of tea, and then Mrs Hudson led her old friend upstairs.

* * *

She hadn't been in 221B for a long while now. She had just left it. She feared that it might be damp, mouldy or infested with some creature, but when she swung open the door the intactness of the room made both of them draw a sharp breath.

It was dusty, very dusty. Everything was buried in a thick grey layer, half-hidden, lost. A single cobweb criss-crossed one of the corners of the ceiling. But other than that...

She opened the curtains, shedding a slim ray of light onto the armchairs that brought back so many memories for both of them. John still stood in the doorway, uncertain. He looked as if he might cry. She couldn't blame him. She felt a bit teary.

'So... why now?' Mrs Hudson asked at last. 'What changed your mind?'

John started, emerging from a reverie. 'Well... I've got some news.'

'Oh God.' Mrs Hudson tried to stop herself from shuddering. 'Is it serious?'

The anxious expression fled from John's face as he realised why she looked so horrified. 'No, I'm not ill. I've, well, I'm moving on.'

 _He's already moved on_ , Mrs Hudson could not help but think. _How can he..._ A horrid thought struck her. 'You're emigrating?'

'No, I've, er, met someone.'

Relief flooded Mrs Hudson's features. 'Oh, how lovely!'

'We're getting married,' John said then, smiling at last, though he was blushing. 'Well, I'm going to ask, anyway.'

'So soon after Sherlock?'

'Well, yes.' He looked confused.

Her eyes travelled around the room for a moment, the room she loved as much as, if not more than, its tenants. It seemed such a shame for it to sit here, almost untouched. She had begun to think about boxing up some of the stuff. Charities might want the books. The equipment could go to schools. Sherlock was gone. John was definitely not coming back. So now what?

She came back to herself, and managed to smile, a little cheekily. 'What's his name?'

John rubbed his temples. 'It's a woman,' he said with more than a little exasperation. God, did she really still think –

'A woman?'

'Of _course_ it's a woman.'

'You really have moved on, haven't you?'

'How many times? Sherlock was _not_ my boyfriend!'

They both started visibly at the mention of Sherlock, but recovered quickly, more quickly than they expected. Mrs Hudson tried to pat him on the shoulder but he retreated. 'Live and let live – that's my motto,' she said at last, beaming despite herself.

'Mrs Hudson, listen to me,' John said, gritting his teeth. 'I am not gay!'

The encounter didn't last much longer after that. John was pleased to see Mrs Hudson again, but she had irked him more than he let on, and he didn't want her to carry on teasing him like this. Anyway, he had places to be, things to do – a girl to surprise. Therefore he hugged Mrs Hudson and left for the second time, and she felt more alone at that moment than she ever had in the past two years.

The Baker Street gang was finally, definitively, no more.

* * *

It happened when she least expected it, when she was cooking dinner and trying not to feel too sad. She was happy for John, of course – he had moved on, he had found someone to love and care for him. But she couldn't help feeling that she had waited two years for nothing.

It happened when she was cooking dinner and reminiscing helplessly on times that were long gone. The first she knew of it was the quiet clatter on the step outside, the hand on the door-handle. She heard the handle on the front door rattle – she froze. Someone was trying to break in.

Her hand went to the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon – the frying-pan, thankfully as of yet free of dinner. She clutched it with both hands, crept out of the kitchen and into the hallway. There was a shadow behind the door – a shadow she thought she knew, a tall and slightly intimidating shadow.

The door opened, and Mrs Hudson took up her best defensive stance, holding the frying-pan ready to strike.

That was when Sherlock Holmes emerged into the hallway, throwing Mrs Hudson into violent hysterics.


	5. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes was back.

He had, or so she gathered from the brief spate of words he cast in her direction, faked his death so that he could spend two years tracing Moriarty's men incognito. And, to all intents and purposes, he had succeeded – but not at no cost to his friends back in England.

But he hadn't forgotten them. Indeed, he was already beginning to regret slightly what he had done. So he had returned.

His name was suddenly all over the media, on Twitter, on the news websites; he had gone to visit John, and shocked and angered him in doing so; and then, not quite in favour with his best friend, he had gone to check up on his best acquaintance, and set foot in 221 Baker Street once again.

He had thought that it would be quiet. He thought he had remembered Mrs Hudson as being subtle. He didn't know what had hit him when she lunged forwards and embraced him, nearly bowling him over.

The contact made him uneasy but he let her press him to her, even patting her on the back (was that considered a gesture of affection? He hoped so). Then he asked if he could go upstairs.

Mrs Hudson nodded, and they went to 221B together; she hesitated with her hand on the key in the lock, and then turned it, and they entered the flat.

Sherlock seemed to sway in the doorway for a few tantalising moments. Then he crossed the room, noted that nothing had been moved, realised that he hadn't practised his violin in two years, and revelled in being here once more. 221B was his favourite place, the only place he loved, the only place in which he felt safe, the place he had lived in. He hadn't lived there for two years. He hadn't really lived for two years, in more ways than one.

Then he went to the table and noticed the letter on it.

He picked up the browned envelope and studied it, his brow creasing as he read the address, which was written shakily and which had faded somewhat, and the postmark, which was from some distance away. He knew the handwriting instantly though; he hesitated, wondering whether to open it; but he decided against it and threw it back down onto the table.

'He's left then,' he said dully. 'Mycroft said he had.'

'But of course he has, Sherlock dear,' Mrs Hudson said.

He looked a little as if his world had collapsed. 'God. He's so, so... normal. Moving out, finding a girlfriend...' He gave a somewhat dismal groan.

'Really, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson scolded him, following him as he went and fell into his armchair. 'You should be happy for him. They're getting married, you know.' She smiled, but Sherlock did not return it. 'And why would he have stayed here, hmm? He didn't know you weren't...'

At that moment tears began to prick her eyes, and she smiled sadly. 'Oh, _Sherlock_. Look at you. Look at you, all... alive, and... oh, _Sherlock_...'

Fluttering her hands in front of her as if to calm herself down, she gave him a teary smile and went through to the kitchen to make tea.

She put the kettle on, and was strangely reassured by its sound, the bubbling indication that life had returned to 221B. A minute later she made two mugs of hot, sweet tea, and gave one of them to Sherlock, who beamed in a manner quite unlike his usual one, forgetting his annoyance of earlier in the wave of pleasure that had just washed over him. For the moment he forgot about John, forgot how angry he was supposed to be at what had happened whilst he was away.

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' he said, sipping it.

Would she ever believe him if he told her how much he had missed Baker Street, missed her? She was a rock, a steady and unwaveringly loyal acquaintance. No, not acquaintance. She was like – family. Yes. Another mother, a sister, a grandmother, an auntie all at once. Always smiling. Always on hand with a cup of tea and a smile. She had always been there for him at the end of the road. Dear Mrs Hudson. Perhaps she would never know how much he appreciated her, how much he – loved her. Yes. He loved her as if she was part of his family. He loved her more than anyone in his family. He had never expected to be capable of such an emotion, but – Mrs Hudson transcended all of his expectations.

She sat there so quietly, so modestly, watching him over her tea with that satisfied smile that betrayed how happy she was. He looked so peaceful, sitting there in his old armchair as if he had never been away; but his eyes sparkled and glanced around the room, noticing how nothing had moved – apart from a thick layer of dust, the living-room was the same as it had been the day he had left. It was comforting; he made a mental note to keep it this way forever, just so he always had somewhere he could return to and feel safe and warm even after the darkest of days.

And Mrs Hudson watched him; and she found herself smiling widely at the very notion of him being there, seated across from her, alive and well and drinking tea. Just like old times.

'Welcome home, Sherlock,' she said.

* * *

 **Short and sweet perhaps, but I hope you enjoyed it. Do let me know what you thought, and thanks for reading! :)**


End file.
